


Some Rise by Sin, and Some by Virtue Fall

by ken_ichijouji (dommific)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Westworld Fusion, Amusement Parks, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Ballet, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Victor Nikiforov, Chicago (City), Depression, Get In the Robot Yuuri, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor Character Death, Missionary Position, Robots, Science Fiction, Spot the Music!, Top Katsuki Yuuri, Western, Yes that's a Double Entrendre, lennyface, shakespeare quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-09 16:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14719919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dommific/pseuds/ken_ichijouji
Summary: When his roommate suggests he book a long weekend at Westworld to get his mind off a recent tragedy, Katsuki Yuuri makes an unexpected connection with a piano player named Victor. But in a world made of smoke and mirrors designed to cater to his every want, can Yuuri trust that Victor is what he seems?Yuri!!! On Ice/HBO's Westworld fusion written for the pilot issue of "Shall We Read?"





	Some Rise by Sin, and Some by Virtue Fall

**Author's Note:**

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> For quick reference and those unfamiliar, [here is the official hompage for HBO's Westworld.](https://www.hbo.com/westworld) I'm not sure how much it spoils the actual show, so be careful! You don't need to know much beyond that Westworld is an immersive vacation destination with humanoid AI robots called Hosts. 

_“The train will deposit you in Sweetwater, a bustling town, upon your arrival to Westworld. This vibrant community features a number of friendly people engaged in all sorts of trade, but stay on your toes — the occasional bandit or ne'er-do-well could sneak in. Play a game of faro at the Mariposa Saloon or relax in luxury lodging at the Coronado — no matter what you choose, our Hosts aim to please.”_

 

_* * *_

 

It’s all part of the show, no different than pancake foundation, focusing gels on a cyclorama, putting props in place, or everyone going silent backstage as an overture begins and the lights flicker so the audience knows to take their seats.

Yuuri wears a Stetson and a dust-colored jacket. His jeans are thick and tucked into black cowboy boots. He’d fit in on a range or in that _Magnificent Seven_ remake, but taking the tram from the pre-staging area to the Experience he paid for, he feels like a bland antiquity passed over for shinier, more interesting finds in a shop of curiosities.

Phichit’s next to him in scarlet with a glittering gold ascot at his throat. His excitement is palpable—this foray into relaxation was his idea, floated to Yuuri two months ago so they could meet the deposit deadline. He has on a black Stetson and gives Yuuri a quicksilver grin. “I ‘m so stoked,” he says. “My whole Experience is going to be so rad.”

Phichit opted for some kind of heroics involving far too many firearms for Yuuri’s taste, even if they do shoot blanks. Yuuri didn’t really ask for anything specific when he filled out his questionnaire. Phichit offered to share his, but Yuuri refused. He left it vague, and he’ll see what happens. It’s kind of like playing an open-world video game, just on a grander scale and much more expensive.

The tram slows to a stop, and an automated voice says: _Arriving at Westworld. Next stop: Futureworld._

Yuuri and Phichit stand along with others in similar clothing, filing out the sliding doors in pairs. People take off to wander the town and see the sights, and the Hosts nod at them as though they come here all the time.

Perhaps they do.

Yuuri ends up on the front porch ofthe Mariposa Saloon with Phichit to his left. As Phichit quirks an eyebrow to speak, a blond man with green eyes in a period-appropriate suit sidles to him. “Sir?”

Phichit lights up before his eyes shamelessly caress every inch of the Host. “Hi.” After a moment, he remembers Yuuri and winks. “Gotta scoot.”

Yuuri nods. “Have fun with your…bank thing.”

Phichit lets the man escort him with a hand on his back. “Oh. I will,” he tosses over his shoulder as he walks away.

With a half-hearted wave, Yuuri fakes a smile and then sighs. He has no idea what to do, and without an aim or his more outgoing friend along, he feels kind of silly. He steps into the bar to get a drink, thinking maybe a couple fingers of whiskey will settle him enough to explore more boldly.

The inside is bustling and raucous, Painted Ladies and Gents watching from a balcony above in corsets and feathers with rouge-smeared cheeks, saloon regulars playing Texas Hold ‘Em and arguing over who has what hand. Aces and Eights, he hears a bickering player claim to have.

The Dead Man’s hand.

The piano is silent in the corner with no player to bring it to life. Yuuri sits at an empty stool and sighs.

“What’ll it be?” asks the barkeep. He’s a jovial man inhis mid-forties with thick dark hair in a ponytail and glittering green-eyes. He wears an apron and white cotton shirt as he dries glassware and gives Yuuri an interested smile.

“Two fingers of whiskey, please,” Yuuri answers as he sets enough cash to cover his drink plus tip on the polished bar top.

“You got it,” the bartender answers as he pours Yuuri the liquor. As he slides it across, he puts the cash in a brass till. “Celestino Cialdini.”

“Katsuki Yuuri,” Yuuri responds with a slight nod and maybe a third of a smile. He swallows half the whiskey—it’s not high quality, so his tongue and throat sting from its burn as it flows down into his belly.

The chatter around him continues, overly noisy like a raucous crowd at a football match. Yuuri has the early onset signs of a headache and as he throws back the rest of the booze and flags Celestino for a refill, he contemplates finding the Old West equivalent of an Advil.

There’s a figure moving to the piano, and he sits. Yuuri sees a bright pink jacket with gold cording about his shoulders and short-cropped platinum hair. He focuses back on his refreshed drink when the music starts.

The piece is melancholy, full of longing and heartache as though the composer bled to death as he wrote the notes on the lines. It’s played with such sadness, deep and abiding and lonesome. Yuuri has to catch his breath suddenly as though his heart just broke. He watches the pianist with a deep transfixion as though he weaves a spell with his fingers flitting across the ebony and ivory.

As the final notes linger, Yuuri feels as though he heard a voice begging for a companion, a man to stay by his side and never leave. He’s too spellbound to applaud, and he touches his face to realize his fingers are wet. The music fills the air with lachrymose, and Yuuri weeps, his heart opening for the first time in at least—

Too long.

The song ends, and the pianist contemplates. Then a new piece begins, though it seems like it might be missing something. This song is a culmination of some kind, but it’s a bit weak as though a violin playing in harmony with the piano would make it truly soar. It’s not bad, far from it, but it needs just a little something extra.

There’s a kind of hush in the middle, slow and delicate like a crane glides above a river, and Yuuri suddenly regrets dance lessons instead of violin as a child. Presumptuous as it would be to randomly perform with a stranger like this, he longs to regardless, longs to fill in the gaps of this man’s music.

More pieces are played until he stops for a break to rest and get water. He stands and bows to the crowd, his pink jacket shimmering slightly, dimmerthan the softly lit platinum of his hair. It might be the music he chose, but in that moment the room stops and Yuuri knows he’s never encountered such a beautiful person, even from across a crowded room like this.

The pianist meets his gaze, Yuuri jumping with a flush on his face as he turns his eyes away. He looks at the shelves behind the bar, reaching up to its ceilings with a rolling ladder for Celestino or whoever to fetch the top shelf offerings. Yuuri hides in his hat and house-whiskey trying to disappear.

A person sits to his left and says in a smooth, bright voice, “Birch beer, Celestino, since I’m still working.” Yuuri feels eyes on him, and he manages a peakto confirm that it’s the piano player. He gives Yuuri an interested smile. “Hi. New in town?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri manages with a weak smile. He doesn’t continue, settling into an awkward silence. Up close the man’s eyes are almost neon blue. He’s likely a Host, and Yuuri falters, unsure of what to do or say.

“Victor,” blue eyes says with an offer of his right hand.

Yuuri shakes it. “Yuuri.”

“Yuuri,” Victor repeats, not-quite perfectly matching Yuuri’s pronunciation. It’s closer than most people get since he doesn’t completely flatten the _r_. “It’s lovely to make your acquaintance.”

“Same.” Victor’s touch burns with some kind of assurance or guarantee. It’s like touching a door knob in the cold and catching sparks on his fingers. Yuuri knows he’s staring, but he can’t make himself look away.

“Did you like the music?” Victor asks.

“It’s beautiful,” Yuuri answers without hesitation. He cringes at how eager he sounds.

Victor sips his drink. “Any requests? I don’t take them usually, but I can make an exception this once.” He smiles, his lips like a Cupid’s bow, and his eyes twinkle as he bestows a wink upon Yuuri.

Yuuri instantly turns scarlet and coughs. “Um. Do you know _In Regards to Love_?”

“Both parts like my own name,” Victor assures him. He looks him deep in his eyes, and for once Yuuri can’t pull away. He strokes the back of Yuuri’s knuckles in a way Yuuri thinks it was imaginary, and he stands. “I hope you enjoy the show, Yuuri. This half’s for you.”

Yuuri flushes and watches him go. Victor sits on his stool and stretches his fingers, Yuuri utterly transfixed by the grace with which he moves. The music fills the Mariposa like an ardent pasodoble, and Yuuri can’t tear his eyes away.

When the show and encores end, Victor meets his eyes on every bow. Yuuri is spellbound and smiles in return.

 

***

 

_“What are you looking for? Do you want a whirlwind romance? Are you interested in unleashing your baser instincts? We offer packages for the latter…you can go on rampages, cause all sorts of mayhem! If you have a Host you particularly like, they can be your playth—“_

 

_“What? No!” Yuuri protests. “No, I just—I’m not sure. There are a lot of options. This is my friend’s idea since I’ve been kind of a homebody. I don’t…I should think more, I guess.”_

 

* **

 

Phichit booked a four night, three day excursion and while he’s off on his bank robbery and romance simulation, Yuuri quietly books a room in the Coronado. It’s a luxury hotel with a restaurant, and he takes his supper alone with little else but a copy of the Sweetwater newspaper. The hotel is glitzy in that old-fashioned way with gilding and heavy fabrics, and Yuuri excuses himself to bed with an oil lamp and an illuminated antique copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets for his company.

There are songs stuck in his head, the most prominent the one melody that aches for a companion to complete it. If he were a musician, he’d be composing a violin piece to match as he lies awake in his bed, but he’s a danseur having just completed his third season at the Joffrey.

He sets the book aside and stands. After the bare minimum of stretching, he choreographs to the music on repeat in his memory.

There are spins and glissades across the small floorspace he has rented, a long, elegant pose like a figure skating Ina Bauer, and when he hears the final notes, he reaches to…someone, someone with a kind smile and blue eyes.

His arm drops and he feels so completely alone. The lies he’s told himself and Phichit burn his eyes and throat. Nothing lasts forever, and nothing gold can stay—he repeats the dance, tweaking the movements to better suit the song. A partner would suit this, a _pas de deux_ between lovers whose meeting strengthens them both, uniting into a sublime harmony soaring above the ether.

There’s a knock on his door, Yuuri skidding mid-step in his bare feet on the polished wood. He opens it with a raised eyebrow since they don’t offer the equivalent of a “do not disturb” sign.

Platinum hair and blue eyes greet him. “Ah, hello.”

Yuuri slams the door and rests against it. He shakes his head a few times, realizes his impossible rudeness, and tries again after pulling on his pants under the gown.

Victor stares at him with obvious (and amused) confusion.

“Hello,” Yuuri says. “You…startled me.”

“I apologize,” Victor says. “I slipped the desk boy a little cash hoping you’d be here. May I?”

Yuuri opens the door and allows him entry. Victor walks in and takes a quick look around at their location — he’s changed from his outfit at the Mariposa, wearing a gray overcoat and a green shirt that would make anyone else look peaky. Victor has a cloth bundle in his right hand and a thermos in his left. “Miss Lilia’s sweet rolls,” he offers. “And some good, strong coffee. The stuff they serve here’s not bad, but it’s weak if you need a pick-me-up.”

Yuuri takes one—it’s still warm with the icing almost clear and melting on its top, and the smell of cinnamon and flour filling his nose. “Thanks.”

Victor’s smile grows in luminosity and size. There’s a settee by the window, and Yuuri gestures for Victor to sit. He’s careful to put a meter between them as he snacks on the fresh-baked treats.

“I don’t mean to be intrusive, but—“ Victor considers his words. “It’s not often the Mariposa gets solo visitors who don’t choose a girl or boy for some company. I was curious.”

The Painted Ladies and Gents, Yuuri remembers — a pair of women, one with a red bob and her companion has waist-length raven-colored hair, a man with a serious expression in bright colors like a ropical bird, another who is tall with blue eyes clad in purple and black like a warlock. Something for everyone, Yuuri guesses as he swallows. “I’m not looking for that.”

“No shame if you are,” Victor says with a shrug. “We’re all looking for something, and it varies from person to person.”

Yuuri sips the coffee, offering the cup to Victor. He turns it so Victor doesn’t drink where his mouth’s been, but Victor must not have noticed because he switches it back like an indirect kiss. Yuuri’s cheeks heat.

“We have a lot of guests come in and out,” Victor says. “This town’s kind of not a place many people see fit to stay, I think. They all want different things when they come through—some cause trouble, some break hearts, some just want to rest a spell before they find their final destination.” Victor’s arm drapes across the back of the settee. “What are you here for, Yuuri?”

Yuuri shrugs and picks apart another roll.

Victor realizes he won’t get an answer before drinking more coffee. Yuuri glances at him; it’s just code, he thinks. It’s lines of coding, maybe some fancy Linux dev work, making him care. He’s programmed for this, to be kind and a good listener.

Though…he’ll be reprogrammed and forget when Yuuri leaves. This weird intrusive compassion from a human being like Phichit would piss Yuuri off, and in fact it has in the past such as with a girl who was too aggressive towards him in the corps two seasons ago.

She did it again when he got the news a few months ago, and he ended up bodily shoving her across the room.

Victor is here, open and willing with this moment a couple of days from being put in his mental discard bin to never be recovered. He’s warm and caring, and against his normal tendencies, Yuuri unravels. He meets him where he is. “I lost someone. My best friend thought I should try to get out since I’ve either gone to work or sat at home since. I don’t know—I’m not ready I think, but I might never be. So here I am.”

Victor nods. “I’m sorry to hear that. It can be hard to get back out there. You should be happy or at least proud you’re trying.”

“Phichit said the same,” Yuuri admits.

They drink and eat in relative silence, companionable this time instead of awkward. Yuuri looks at Victor, at the halo cast around his hair from the lack of glasses on Yuuri’s face and the oil lamp giving off its glow on the table behind his head. His hands clench on his thighs before opening again.

“Some people choose to see the ugliness in this world, the disarray; I choose to see the beauty, to believe there is an order to our days, a purpose. I know things will work out the way they’re meant to,” Victor says to end the silence after a while. “It’s not always easy, and it’s not always fair, but we can’t close ourselves to everything the world has to offer. It’s not worth sacrificing all the joy to push away the pain.”

It’s something like a greeting card or a child’s Valentine, but it’s also a promise or a portent that he can trust to follow through.

“I always open my heart. If you don’t open your heart, you can’t absorb anything, and it’s not interesting. The driving force for growth is to have an open heart,” Victor finishes with purpose and tenderness.

Yuuri nods and listens. It’s true, he knows this deep down. It’s different from the tip-toeing on eggshells and empty-sounding condolences. Though it’s gentle, it still counts as a push. “Thanks,” Yuuri offers.

Victor nods and shrugs.

The thermos is empty and the only remains of the rolls are crumbs. There’s no move to leave or retire, though it is surely quite late. Before Yuuri can say he needs to sleep, Victor’s hand idly takes his right one. It’s innocent, Victor seemingly deciding how he feels about the texture of Yuuri’s palms, the softening calluses from a lack of barre use, the permanent scar from his childhood dog nipping him too hard at play one Saturday that required stitches. Yuuri doesn’t jerk his hand away, choosing instead to slide his fingers in-between Victor’s longer, elegant ones that are his livelihood.

He has three days.

He’s safe. This Host is tailored to his needs, and he will go back to his life without fuss or pain when when it’s time. Yuuri slides across the velvet and leans against Victor, resting his head on his shoulder while his free arm wraps around Yuuri’s waist. This breaks him, the last time he allowed anyone to hold him having been the last performance of the season those months ago, the jubilant celebration giving way to twisting metal and broken glass dripping with blood—

Victor sings under his breath in Italian, and he traces the tracks of Yuuri’s silent tears with a fingertip.

When their lips meet, Yuuri is the initiator. It’s not real but it is at the same time, and he lets himself submit and fall without any fighting or failure, pressing Victor into the scarlet velvet as they kiss. It’s soft at first, barely much at all, and then Yuuri lets go completely, giving in.

The only sound in the room are their lips meeting, their breaths when they pause to steady themselves.

Yuuri swallows and starts to perhaps talk himself out of it, but then Victor’s thumb slides across his bottom lip. “I’ve got you,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

It’s enough.

It’s short work to help Victor out of his jacket, the heavy canvas and brass buttons hitting the floor with a clatter. Before any further disrobing happens, Yuuri takes Victor’s hands, kissing him while walking backwards to the bed. He looks in his eyes, and they’re blue, far too human, and Yuuri thinks he should feel crazy, but a fog lifts, and he can think unobstructed for once.

Victor kneels on the mattress and pulls down the brown leather suspenders over the green shirt. He’s a bit pale for living under desert sun,but Yuuri doesn’t mind as he maps the exposed skin of his clavicle with his tongue. Yuuri uses his hands, his fingertips, his mouth to memorize Victor—the length of his neck, the curve of his hip, the arc of his spine, the silken texture of his hair. Yuuri smells the saloon clinging to Victor’s own scent, he tastes the coffee on his lips, the tang of his sweat, and when Victor gasps into Yuuri’s wanting mouth as he takes them both in one hand sweet as love and strong as death, Yuuri thinks he’s right.

Victor’s got him, but…maybe he has Victor in turn.

The short nails on Victor’s hands leave scrapes over Yuuri’s back and forearms, and Yuuri grabs his moisturizer. It’s an oil made from almonds and scented with a dash rosewater, and Yuuri coats his hands when he thinks Victor’s need has made him lose his senses. He stretches him, Victor’s moans as musical as his piano playing, and the vein in Yuuri’s cock pulses slightly-off beat in response to every noise he makes.

Yuuri slicks his cock and positions Victor’s legs over the crook of his elbows as he sinks down, deeper, deeper, until he bottoms out. Victor’s hands circle around his throat, and Yuuri doesn’t fear being choked as he drives into him. He lets himself care about something since the accident…or rather, he cares about _someone_.

Victor begs, calls his name at least three times in a row, and Yuuri outpaces him to completion, the heat surrounding his cock as well as his heart too overwhelming for his stamina. Victor sighs with not a little frustration, and Yuuri drapes himself between his legs as he sucks his length down his throat. It’s not much longer that Victor comes with a lyrical, wordless cry.

Victor opens his eyes, meeting Yuuri’s gaze, and Yuuri falls straight into his arms. His pain is…present, but not all-consuming. He can breathe. He can feel without dropping to the floor, unable to ever get back up.

Proud and tall, Yuuri can genuinely smile. Victor brushes back the sweaty hair across Yuuri’s forehead and as they kiss, Yuuri is lost and found at once.

 

** *

 

_“Sometimes when people choose our services, it’s means to escape. What would you like to run from,, Mr. Katsuki? Stress at work? A difficult break up?”_

 

_A long sip of water. The loud cracking of each hand’s knuckles. Averted gaze, a loud, nervous swallow. “Everything.”_

 

***

 

He awakens with the sun filtered onto his face and an arm around his waist. There’s warm breathing in his ear, and he doesn’t feel bound or trapped. Some past partners have done that, clinging to him like a child with separation anxiety.

In his rest, Victor looks younger thanks to his pillow-creased cheeks and lack of concentration in his face. He’s heart-achingly beautiful, Yuuri ponders as Victor stirs awake. He is everything he could ever dream of, and in that instant, he’s crippled and struggling to breathe. He reminds himself of the exercises he’s learned, to exhale slowly, counting it, and then back in. He counts every breath over the course of a few minutes and his erratic heartbeat resumes normalcy.

Victor’s eyes open, and he watches Yuuri the way he’s been watched for a half an hour. “Good morning,” he says with a stretch. The white sheets are soft from countless washings, and they bring out the pink tones and reddish freckles across Victor’s clavicle and shoulders.

Yuuri forces a smile. Victor sits up and gives him a long kiss; Yuuri knows a person can’t really fall in love in a day and if Victor was a man, he wouldn’t fit anywhere in his life. He’s scared to be lonely and he’s terrified of being happy. He’s a fool and a coward—he’s weak and he’s stubborn, but Victor managed to unlock the iron cage surrounding his heart, and God he feels _too much_. Being shut down for months means his levee can break in this room with his lover even if only for a little while. It’s not real…it’s a luxury long-weekend clever trick he paid a handsome sum for, but he doesn’t _care_ and shoves the remaining reservations to the side.

Victor holds his face, his thumbs tracing the roundness of Yuuri’s face he’s never fully managed to outgrow, and Yuuri stops second-guessing these moments. Victor’s right—a person has to try.

“Do you play tonight?” Yuuri asks.

“No, I’m off tonight and tomorrow,” Victor says. “I play the rest of the week, though.”

His last night is when he’ll hear him again. It’s poetic. “Do you have somewhere to be? Or…”

“No obligations except to make sure Miss Lilia doesn’t think I’m dead,” Victor replies. “She’s the owner of the boarding house I live in, and she worries in her own way. The boy she’s taken in is just like her, hissing and spitting like his pet cat one minute and then calm and staying close to you the next.”

“Mm,” Yuuri says. His hand roams Victor’s shoulder, then to his upper back.

“Do you ride?” Victor asks. “I know a spot for lunch just out of town too far to walk.”

“I’m not much for horses,” Yuuri admits. “But…I can learn to like them.”

“I’ll make sure Makkachin goes slow, then,” Victor quips with one of his perfect winks. His eyes lock onto Yuuri’s, and his soul feels like a Roman Candle that’s just sparked to life. Yuuri pushes him back down into the pillows and sheets, pressing their lips and chests together, and he loses himself like he rarely has offstage with no orchestra to guide him.

They surface late in the morning, using the lavishly oversized soaking tub provided together, and Victor takes him down the main drag to a General Store for provisions. Fresh baked bread, soft cheeses, cured meat, pickles and some apple moonshine for a modified Ploughman’s lunch are packed into a rucksack before they head to the Sweetwater stables. A mare with a gray coat and wavy brown mane gives Victor an affectionate whinny as he brushes her a few times before putting on her tack.

“Makkachin,” Victor says with a gesture.

Yuuri smiles at the horse with a nod. “Nice to meet you,” he says as he holds out a hand. She sniffs him before making the same approving sounds she did Victor, giving him a few love-nibbles and a flick of her tail.

Victor hefts himself up and straddles her back, pulling Yuuri up with an offered hand. He wraps his arms around his waist as they ride together towards the hills, Victor talking sometimes about points of interest and warning Yuuri about the rattlers that may hide close by. Yuuri doesn’t talk, but he listens with rapt attention as he rests his left cheek against the worn corduroy on Victor’s back.

The elevation isn’t so high he needs to pop his ears, but it’s above the flat level of the town below, and Victor spreads out a thick wool blanket, Makkachin being trustworthy enough to stay untethered without leaving them stranded, and the bluebells and yellow roses surround them. There’s not much sound out here, not like the bustling noise of town, and Yuuri wishes he’d been allowed to bring his phone or camera in to document it. Memory will have to do.

A couple Joshua Trees stand tall, and they wile away the daylight with good food and better company. Victor does mention he grew up with an upright piano in his home, having perfected his playing for over twenty years, but beyond that Victor doesn’t speak of his past since Yuuri doesn’t ask him to.Yuuri tells Victor about dancing, about starting lessons before he could read, leaving home at a young age for a performing arts boarding school, graduating right into the corps of a prestigious company, and trying out on a wing and a prayer to be a soloist in the Joffrey.

He never says who he began under, and Victor returns the earlier favor with avoiding the question.

Victor’s singing is as good as his playing, and some nights he does both at the Mariposa as he gives Yuuri an a cappella concert for one with a song about a sleeping prince and his beautiful savior.

“So is that why the flashy outfit?” Yuuri teases.

Victor shrugs and laughs. “I’m not just there for my music—I’m eye candy, too. Just like the Painted Ladies and Gents.”

Yuuri furrows his eyebrows.

Victor chokes. “Oh. No. Not like _that_. Celestino wants me to look as good as I sound; he claims I get him more repeat business that way.”

He’s so uncomfortable, Yuuri laughs at his own assumptions. “Okay, I can see that. It worked on me, after all.”

“Thank heaven for that,” Victor laughs with a bright smile. He pulls Yuuri close, and the blue sky and white sun fade into indigo, ultraviolet, and a fiery red. The air cools significantly, and Yuuri shivers as Victor wraps a poncho around him. They ride back to town before the sky finishes darkening, and this time Victor joins Yuuri in the Coronado’s restaurant.

He joins him in his room after, in his bed like the night before, and the time flies far too fast. Yuuri lies awake long after Victor falls asleep, wrapped in him with his hand in his, and he wonders if there’s truly any way this could ever hope to last.

 

 

***

 

_“Your friend expressed interest in an action-adventure package with a dash of romance. He wants to be Hero for a Day. Would that interest you?”_

 

_He cleans his glasses for longer than strictly necessary. “No, that’s not me. I’m more—I guess I’m quieter than Phichit.”_

 

***

 

The melody lilts, too soft for the Mariposa, and tonight Yuuri sits as close the piano as is possible. Air smells like ozone thanks to the ancient spotlights, and beads of sweat glisten across Victor’s forehead as he works the crowd.

Yuuri leaves in the morning—the management offered an extra day if he wants it, and he does, he truly does, but he knows it’s time. Yuuri also knows he lacks the willpower to pull away if he bends even this tiny bit. An extra day will become a week. Then a month, then being fired from the Joffrey and bleeding his savings dry. Nothing about the trip is real, but it is in a way that matters, and Yuuri knows if he doesn’t stick to the plan, he’ll never be able to leave Victor’s side.

This is why it was supposed to make it simple. It was why he gave in. The last few days were always the smoke and mirrors of a fairy tale. As the music winds down, the piece from the first night that sounded lonely and half-finished but now soars as though it’s whole, Yuuri struggles to remember…though, he’s never once forgotten.

Like the forbidden fruit borne of Eve and Adam’s garden, staying with Victor, holding onto him like he never has anyone or anything else is a great temptation that could be worth the fall.

It’s not meant to be—it was never meant to be.

Victor finishes to wild applause and smiles when his eyes meet Yuuri’s. He grins and begins another piece. This is the first one that caught Yuuri’s attention, though tonight Victor sings the words in Italian from their picnic. He changes the meaning even though Yuuri can’t translate—it sounds like a reunion or a marriage instead of a profession of an ache. Yuuri weeps again, but this time it’s not catharsis. Yuuri cries for the lightness that has returned within himself, for the loss he feels ready to release and step back from, for the should have, could have, would have, and for heartbeats that blend together—artificial and organic.

He thinks of an elegant woman with long-hair shouting her praise in the middle of a wet, deserted street until a driver didn’t see her, her body landing thirty feet away from where she stood like the ugliest sort of nightmare. He thinks of a funeral where he didn’t cry, of time off given by the Joffrey to process and to seek professional counseling. Dozens of nights staying in and staring at his walls, basic human needs the only thing capable of getting him out of bed and dressed. Yuuri listens to Victor’s show; it’s a reminder that while Minako is gone, he is here and he has love as long as he allows it entry. The world isn’t solely desolate and gray—there are colors and kindnesses surrounding him for the taking once he opens his palms. The world can be his, and with it happiness once again, not just for a few days this time.

The piece that Victor performs as an encore is uplifting, bright like a great comet, and Yuuri listens as he sings, mouthing the refrain with him that _you only live once._ Do not regret the things before that are inalterable, regret the paths not taken. Regret the chances run away from because of fear. Yuuri loses himself for a moment in the memory of Victor’s first kiss, of his arms around his waist, the gentleness in his voice, and the luminosity of his smile. Do not regret a risk taken that while it may be sad when it ends, made him alive while it lasted. Regret instead a refusal to live, the false notion that good only comes to those who are exceptional in luck or strength.

Yuuri leads the standing ovation. Instead of going backstage, Victor runs to the table in shimmering purple and silver, completing his bows with a sweet kiss on Yuuri’s lips.

He’d love to stay with Victor…but he’s also ready to go home.

 

***

 

_“I don’t know…I’m not a hero. I don’t enjoy hurting people. I wouldn’t shoot a gun if you paid me.” Yuuri takes a deep breath. “I’m…I guess…detached. Observing but not a part of things.” He looks out the meeting room’s glass wall. “Maybe…maybe it’d be nice to feel connected.”_

 

_“To?”_

 

_“Anything,” Yuuri answers._

 

***

 

Yuuri and Phichit have been home for half a week.

Once the suitcases were back in storage and the dirty laundry had been sent to the fluff and fold, Yuuri called the director of the Joffrey, telling her he’s ready to return. He could hear the pleasure in her voice as they arranged for his first day back, and has he hung up, she told him she was happy he’s okay. There’s a little time before he returns, so he spends time going for walks, visits the Lincoln Park Zoo, and eats at restaurants he’s put off trying since he moved to the Windy City.

Not long before he goes back to work, Yuuri comes across a sad, yelping, matted toy poodle in The Loop. He brings the poor baby home, and once he’s cleaned up, he decides he should keep him.

With a bright smile and wistful eyes, he names him Vicchan.

Even though they left Westworld weeks ago, Phichit will not stop chatting about his experience. As entertaining as the stories of him foiling a bank robbery and winning the heart of Christophe, the harried bank manager who took him aside upon their arrival, were the first eighty times, they’ve gotten a touch stale since. Tonight is quiet and spent at their apartment with take out from their favorite Mexican place, and Yuuri laughs a bit when one of Phichit’s hamsters helps herself to part of a taco shell, almost drowning in sour cream in the process. He sneaks some queso to Vicchan next to him on the couch, and Phichit discusses his forthcoming internship and Yuuri’s next featured role.

For music, Phichit puts on an album of Old West-style piano covers, and the pang Yuuri feels is full of joy. He thinks about the deactivated dating site profile; maybe it’s time to put it back online.

“Hey,” Phichit interjects. “Can you get me a refill?” He gestures to his empty beer bottle, rattling it in time with the slowed-down, minor key take on a recent pop classic.

“I need one too, be right back,” Yuuri says as he grabs the empties, rinses them in the kitchen, and puts them into recycling. He grabs a Georgia Grande for himself and a Spotted Saddle for Phichit thanks to their last happy hour at One Trick Pony. Yuuri opens his bottle and pauses before his first sip — when he goes back to dancing, it’s back to diet restrictions and weekly costume fittings. He mourns for the tacos he will no longer be able to have on a whim before shaking it off.

Yuuri exits the kitchen to walk back to the parlor when a voice says, “Hello, Yuuri.”

His first thought is that there’s a robber in their house.Then Yuuri recognizes his voice, dropping the bottles, the glass not shattering but landing with dull thuds on the carpet and rolling to the wall and his open one soaking its contents into their carpet. Yuuri stares with his eyeglasses sliding down his nose and his mouth open like he’s a ventriolquist dummy.

A man in dark clothing with a hood obscuring his face stands half in shadow. He lowers the hood and…it’s Victor.

_It’s Victor._

Victor’s eyes sparkle like blue diamonds as he smiles. “Hi,” he repeats, soft and warm just like before, and Yuuri doesn’t hear anything else before he blacks out from the shock.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed by eternalsunshine13, spookyfoot, exile_wrath, and lilywinterwood since I really really wanted to make sure it fits the Westworld show, yet is comprehensible to someone who may not be familiar with it. 
> 
> The title is a line from Measure to Measure, Act 2, Scene I. 
> 
> The opening quotation announcing their arrival along with, “Some people choose to see the ugliness in this world, the disarray; I choose to see the beauty, to believe there is an order to our days, a purpose. I know things will work out the way they’re meant to,” are lifted verbatim from Westworld HBO.
> 
> “I always open my heart. If you don’t open your heart, you can’t absorb anything, and it’s not interesting. The driving force for growth is to have an open heart,” is lifted verbatim from Yuzuru Hanyu.
> 
> Sorry about Minako. :C
> 
> Tell me if you think Victor is Human or a Host in the comments, in [my ask box on my blog](https://sinkingorswimming.tumblr.com/ask), or on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sink_or_swim).


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